Is That It?

So at some point I must stop writing about the trip and this point has finally been reached. (So cold turkey starts here)

I will add some more specific acknowledgements later but just now I would like to thank all those who have read the blog, those who have added comments, especially those who have emailed, texted, called, fed or  housed me en-route. It gave me great comfort.

A big Thank You as well to those who have contributed towards the the Marie Curie Cancer Charity where, as I write this, the total has exceeded £700.

I learned a lot about myself during the trip. And if you want to know what that is, then it is all somewhere in these pages. For what I write, puns and all, best reveals who I am.

Thank you.

Saddleman and Bike

Dedication

This blog is dedicated to my friend Aric. 

We made a deal that I would make my journey and he would make his. 

So I look forward to meeting at the other end, Aric.

Wonderwall

Along the Calais-St Omer canal path in the afternoon sunshine this is familiar territory except now, without the ice and puddles of February, I can choose the smooth riding line.

Calais is all spring bustle and the route to the ferry well marked. Air flights have resumed so there is no hold up at the P&O ticket desk, just a hike in price to remind you of the recent travel chaos.

"Where have you come from?" asks the French Customs Officer.

"Lebanon", I respond.

"Nederland?".

"No Libon".

"Libon. Nonnnn!"

I feel good. Some recognition of my exploit. Keep it coming.

Then two hours later the magnificent White Cliffs of Dover beckon, truly familiar territory. I am last off the exit ramp, Bike shuddering over gaps and bumps as the coaches and cars speed ahead.

"Where have you been?" asks a man on the Dover promenade.

"Lebanon" I reply.

"That's great, I did Alaska to Argentina last year". That puts me in my place.

And then begins the long haul out of Dover to the top of the cliffs and beyond.

Misses Faversham

I was feeling under the weather after pushing myself too hard in France and that icy night sleeping out near Dover. So my brother Phill came half way across Kent to collect me in his car. He had made the offer a few days before and, when I asked, he followed through saving me a lot of pain. No questions. He just did it. Great brother. That's the importance of being earnest.

I tried to shorten his distance by cycling hard and, for instance, taking the Faversham by-pass. Did I really write this piece just so I could use the headline? How sad. (OK , I know she was a Lady but this is an earlier draft).

P.s. Guess where I finally met Phill? In Rochester, as engraved on my tombstone so many weeks before. It turned out not to be as far as I thought.

Wonderful, Wonderful Rochester

Locked in a Box

I guess at this point at the end of my journey I should come out with some great insights that I have discovered over the past 10 weeks. If any exist then I would just point you back to the previous blog pages but I will give you my one.

It is that fears and uncertainties are generally a waste of time and energy. On countless occasions during the trip I worried about where I would sleep tonight? What would the next country be like? Are those people friendly? Can I take Bike on the bus? Could I cope with a mechanical breakdown? etc. etc.

In every case my fears proved groundless. What is more, I could not do anything until the problem actually confronted me so why worry in the meantime? Sure, in some cases by thinking through your possible actions you can increase the likelihood that you will be well placed to solve the problem. Like choosing to cycle along country roads rather than the main highway to then find a quiet place to wild camp.

But any other worrying was a complete waste of time. Early inthe trip I used to look for candidate places to stop at 2pm just to get in practice! And thereby increase my anxiety. Further more,  it all stops you doing what you really want or need to do at the time. Best live for now and only address future concerns as they arise.

I realise that it is difficult if others say stop worrying. So take a tip from Sally. When you have such a worry, put it in a little mental box of its own, somehwere off toward the top left corner of your imagination, with all the other future concerns, then lock the door and pocket the key. So you can focus on with what you can affect now. Only then will will you get where you want to go, and back home again.

A Land of Yes

I have decided that there are two types of workers. Those who like to be in charge and those who just want to get the job done. The lady at the ticket office in Munich was in the former camp. So she said No, to Bike. And even got out the rule book to prove her point. She said the bus was full. They couldn't take non-approved luggage. IT WASN'T. There were plenty of spare seats including the one next to me. But she wasn't sitting there for me to be able to disprove her groundless objection.

The bus driver by contrast just wanted to help all his passengers get to their destination. He didn't need a rule book.

Later the two farmers who let me camp on their land. They too just said yes.

Return to Canterbury Youth Hostel - Where I just called in and asked from breakfast - And the lady said Yes

So I want to take all the Yes people and put them in a new land. And that's where I am going to live,

Some Like it Hot

It may seem like stating the obvious, and perhaps a belated discovery, but it is much nicer to cycle in warm weather. The contrast struck me when cycling through some of the places Bike and I had visited in France on the way out..

Back in February, finding a place to wild camp was a cold desperate hunt before darkness fell like a shutter. Now it is a matter of which wooded glade to choose, and at our leisure.

View back to the Road from lovely 'woodland glade' camping place in France

So if you decide to undertake this trip, then start about late April when the balmy days begin and before the glades get too crowded.

Flowers in St Omer

Except for the UK that is, where I have just spent the coldest night of all just outside Dover. Here you should give it another month or two.

 The Last Night - Freezing Cold Outside Dover, UK

Tis Better to Receive than Give

Are you a listener or a teller. I have had a great many conversations with people who have befriended me on this trip, for which I should thank them all. But just very occasionally, I felt that the speaker just wanted to give me information. It happened today on the road in France. He did not respond to whatever I said in reply.

This made the conversation a little dissatisfying. It was as though my contribution was devalued. Now often the other person was not speaking in their mother tongue to help me. And I know it is far easier to formulate a sentence in another language than to respond. So I'll just be thankful that they took the time to speak to me.

Or has my conversation become so boring after 10 weeks on the road that it is difficult to reply to? I will test it out with Sally and see. She'll listen.

Follow the Yellow Brick Road (Interesting Fact #531)

I was cycling along the D341 from Arras. It is dead straight, wonderfully flat in stretches and coloured yellow on the map. A cyclist came along side. He was an older retired gentleman (OK, he was about to over take me) and he had lots to tell me about the surrounding area.

For instance, the D341 road we were riding on  was converted to an airstrip during the war. All the trees on either side were felled and concrete laid down to take the weight of the planes. Now the surface is asphalt and the trees have grown back. I wouldn't have known.

All of a Flutter

Some people when they want to give you bad news don't look you in the eye. They have an uncanny ability to make their eyes disappear into the top right hand corner of their sockets, under their lids. Then they flutter the lashes very fast. Turkish bus steward was like that. The one who played in 'Sparks' and didn't like my socks.

It is all very disconcerting. You have nothing to engage with. I do not want to mock the infirmed but it is like they are having a seizure.  Of course they are not. They are just hiding: "I can't see you so you can't see me".

What you would really like to do is give them a good reason for rolling their eyes. But then that's not allowed either.

Dust Yourself Off

I could tell that I was back in France. I fell off my bike. It was on an uneven road surface. They were digging up the road again. They are always doing that in France. The country will be lovely when it is finished.

France - Work in Progress

I prepare for my mishaps, usually waiting until I have an audience. They look at me with pity, sprawling on the ground, and think "Pauvre Chap, he'll never make it to the end of the road".

But I wobble off again into the sunset. Percy Veering, it's my middle name

The Longest Day

From Rheims to past Arras in one day and that's after a night on the bus and rebuilding Bike under a street lap at 5am. Look at it on the map. It's a long way! Around 180km and my muscles are now letting me know. But it  means that I can get home one day earlier.

Through Laon and on to St Quentin

Dropping Like Flies

It has been a bad day for the team. We lost three members all at once. Down Jacket just went missing, somewhere in Munich bus station. Not the best sign of a leader but I didn't notice until the next day. I will miss him. He had been a great support all through. Especially for my head on long bus rides.

Then I had to leave helmet behind. He took a hit in the bus hold from Istanbul. I had hoped to get him home and patch him up. But he had to go. Too many other things to think about.

And then Oil. 'Whitening Lightening' he called himself. Perhaps as a bit pretentious but then he was a smooth operator. I think Chain will miss him most.

But some good news as well. Two-Towels turned up at Ingrid's. I must have left them on the way out. It won't make up for Down Jacket though. He was a real softee.

Bits and Pieces

They won't allow Bike on the bus to Rheims tomorrow. That is a big problem. The ticket is booked, paid for and non-refundable. But I can't go without Bike.

The lady at the ticket desk was adamant. No bike and no money back. At least not from her. She said it with a frown. Most dispiriting.

So I have got work to do.  The guy at the bike shop was brilliant. Come back tomorrow and you can have a bike box for free. So I did. We took bike apart and, with a squeeze, got him in. The guy would not take any money. But he also did it all with a smile. Wonderful.

Then I carried Bike-in-a-Box to the bus station. Where I had left all the panniers taped together. So now I have just the regulation two pieces per passenger. But they are BIG pieces. Then I wait in the bus queue. If the driver turns me away then I am in Schtuck.

But the Driver didn't even bat an eyelid. He took the box and bags into the bus hold and we are off overnight to Rheims. Nice man.

Return to Rivendell

It was a month and a half ago that I was last here, at my friends Ingrid and Peter in Herrsching, outside Munich. Again it is bliss to stop and rest with people I know. After a good night's sleep the challenge does not seem so daunting and I can plan my onward step with a clear head.

Onwards and Upwards

On we go, this now happy band of travellers. Along the Italian coast, across the northern plain, by-passing Bologna and Verona and on towards the distant Alps. Now a harmonious group with the most dissident having left when the ship docked in Ancona. They could try their luck in getting home by other means.

Ever Inventive Turkish Bus Drive

Over the Bremmer pass and into Austria just as darkness fell. On entering Germany we were pulled over on the road for a passport check and then finally into Munich bus station. Applause for the Turkish bus driver - see how views have changed - then quick goodbyes as my fellow passengers scurry off on their onward journeys.

I sit and rebuild my bike at 2am wondering whether I can ever ride again after so many days off. Still 1000kms from home. Maybe Sally has been able to book me on that onward bus.

Souk Wedding

This bit was missed out from the Lebanon Section:

Walking around the old city of Saida in the evening, all is quiet. The stalls are stored away and the shop fronts shuttered. The residents are in their homes up stairways, behind closed doors. A few workers sweep away the last debris of a busy day and wash down the pebbled streets.

Except that this evening there happens to be a wedding. We hear the music and laughter before we see the procession. Musicians play lutes and some type of stringed instruments plus, of all things, bag pipes complete with tartan, but the tune bore little resemblance to 'Scotland the Brave'.

Then came the dancers, hands held high above their heads, almost all men, friends of the groom, but also his mother, out front. She was the happiest of all, cavorting around like one possessed, as she had gained a daughter. The bride's mother was solemn, she had lost hers.

Then came the bride and groom. She looked happy and radiant, smiling broadly and dressed in white and gold cloth, finely embroidered. Bride maids followed, head and faces half covered in silver bejewelled masks.

And there in the throng was a white horse. The traditonal means to carry them away to their new life. Except in this case, they preferred the waiting silver Mercedes Sports Car. A girl from the Souk has her standards to maintain.

One More for the Skylark

We had a stow-a-way under our bus. He must have got aboard at the ferry port in Greece and then was spotted getting out at a lay-by on the autostrada about 1 hour into Italy. Our driver called the police. They came but  were not interested. Apparently it happens all the time

I took a look at the space he hid in. It was behind the front wheel above the axle. One slip or touch of a moving part and he'd have been a goner. It shows you the risks that desperate people will take. But for this one it paid off.

Summer of ´73

I feel like a 20 year old again. That summer spent hitching around Europe on a shoe-string budget. Sleeping on trains and struggling to communicate.

Only now I have a bigger safety net: a couple of credit cards and some rickety foreign language skills. Each day brings new sights and excited expectation. Notice there's no mention of summer romance. See how I have matured as a person.

Now all need is a cambert cheese to over-ripen in the heat of my cycle bag and the memories will be complete.

Modern Cathedrals

Now is the time. Go visit an airport. Forget St Pauls, Chartre or The Blue Mosque. Head for Heathrow or Charles de Gaulle. For the crowds have gone and you will be able to wander around those hallowed halls and marvel at the icons.

Visit the Check-In desk for the standard sermon (Did you pack these bags...)
Pass through Security Control ready to expose any hidden sins
Eat food tasting like it was prepared for the five thousand
Confess to Customs to pay penitence and seek absolution
Submit to Immigration at the pearly gates for the final reckoning
And stand before the Baggage Carousel as it promises deliverance.

Outside, in the distance, you will see the grounded Angels poised to take the blessed to their rightful destination.

Yes, this is a unique opportunity to wonder at a time when the world worshipped at the alter of international air travel. Do it now before the crowds return.

No Man's Land

It's like that game you play on the pavement as kids: "Don't step on the crack or you´ll break your back". Except here it is bodies strewn across the floor of the passenger lounge. It looks like the aftermath of some fiercesome battle. But you treat them like landmines. Touch one and it may explode.

But you do, and they don't. Just a groan or murmur, for they are sound asleep. That teenage sleep from which it would take the blast of a landmine to wake them.

This is when you appreciate teenagers' nocturnal habits. They play late and sleep late. Plus these are French so they know how to play. It means that at 7am you now have the bathroom to yourself. A quick wash and then off to the cafeteria before the land mines start to explode.

The Best Adventure

This is the best! I am sitting in the Sunday afternoon sunshine in a Greek taverna on the harbour side in Igoumenitsa looking out to sea towards Corfu.. I have finished off my Gyros with Tzatziki and am now enjoying a bottle of Mythos beer. It all feels like Captain Corelli's Mandolin. What a stroke of luck. This forced diversion has turned the long trip back into another adventure.

Fragmentation

Our not so happy band is starting to splinter. Breaking into factions along national lines. Each group feeds off the other members, reinforcing every comment to move away from a balanced viewpoint. The moaners discuss a suitable lawyer, the positives get smug and the Turks are in the middle, solving the problems as they arise. The Macedonian lady just keeps feeding everyone bread and pastries.

Language doesn't help as you feel most comfortable talking to those you can fully understand and soon begin to feel and act like them, in your own little national enclave. Now and again you venture across. They think you are remarkably relaxed but misguided.

Greece, The Friction

I have invented a new game. It's great fun and it's called "Look on the Bright Side". You find someone on the bus who is feeling hard done by. Not difficult. They can be smouldering about anything from the diversion via Greece, the long delays at the border, the lack of a valid driving licence, the initial price hike at the start or the more recent demand for 25 Euros each for the ferry. In fact at one time there was a near mutiny.

Then you casually stand next to them and point out the positive aspects. How we could still be stuck in Istanbul, the beauty of the Greek port, or the future fun of driving up through Italy. You can even say that it´s very good value considering what the ferry is costing the bus company. You'd pay hundreds for a holiday like this.

But many don't want to hear this. They need to have there full measure of moan. Some talk of sending a bill to the bus company when they get home. But I'm going to see the "Life of Brian" film instead. The signature tune will bring back such happy memories.

Dog Days

The two ladies sitting in the front row each have a dog. Large stuffed ones. And they look like a cross between 'Spot' the dog in children's books and a dead sheep. I assume they are comforters but they appear combersome.

Meanwhile at the back of the bus, much beer is being trunken. Again it seems a pointless exercise. With 3 hours between pit stops my tanken would not be big genuf. At least there is no raucous singing.

Perhaps if they got together we could put on a show to pass the time: "The Singing Ventriloquist Dogs" with such favourites as "fifteen gottles of gear on the wall".

As you can see, this bus trip has gone on far too long.

Borderline Madness (2)

One hour of the Turks discussing licences and then we are off again, towards the Greek side. And joy of joy the Greeks accept it. I did later see a bottle of whisky being surreptiously slipped into the Greek Police office but presumably that was just to say thanks

Now we have another problem: more passengers than passports and Greek Immigration don't like that. We have been 4 hours at this border and some passengers are mentioning the fact to the Turkish driver. He rightly gives them short shrift as he is gamely finding a way through every problem as it arises.

OK this may not happen in Germany or the UK but then if your licence wasn't valid in those countries then there would be no way around the problem. We would be heading back to Istanbul. At least here there is a solution, if only you can find it.

And he does again. After 4 hours 15 minutes we are on our way again. The passport issue was resolved when you count the children.

Borderline Madness (1)

How long does it take to cross a border from Turkey into the EU at around midnight? - surely a quiet time.

So far it has been 2 hours and counting. We got out to show out passports on the Turkish side. Then we unloaded all our suitcases - and in my case disassembled bike - and put them through the security machine. Except bike wouldn't fit so they assumed it was safe.. Then the bus was inspected. We reloaded, with bike being thrown on top of everything, and two hours later we are off to Greece.

Only the Greeks then send us back. Apparently, the driver's good licence wasn't as good as we all thought.

And Then It Poured

The bus has broken down. No power on the hills so the driver pulled over before we got to Greece. He and his co-driver, the one without the licence, did not seem to be making much progress in fixing it so some passengers were getting jumpy. Their suggestion of sending for another bus was a non-starter. But now they've called in the professional. This one looks like a mechanic. Sort of Bob Hoskins with oil down his shirt.

p.s. Good news: after two hours gasoline pours out of a pipe when you turn the engine on. We take this to be a 'good sign'. And sure enough we are back in the bus and off again.

Can Bob fix It? Yes he can!

Ice Cold Beer in Alex

The bus journey is turning into a film epic. The bus's air-conditioning has broken down and the passengers at the back are complaining at the sweltering heat.

Knuckle down everyone, we've all got to get this bus to Munich. British, Germans and a few other nationalities all pulling together. Where is John Mills when you need him?

In a twist of fate, my daughter Becky is stranded in the same Alexandria in Egypt. Maybe she should drink that ice cold beer on my behalf if we make it.

Change of Plan (Part 2)

Considering the rush for places everyone is remaining commendably calm. We are now on the bus and a rumour spreads that we are taking the scenic route to Munich: via Greece, ferry to Italy and then over the Alps. It appears that one of the hastily mustered drivers does not have the right licence to drive in EU countries. In typical Turkish fashion they have found a solution.

The rumour is confirmed as we turn left along the Mediterranean coast. It will take 2 days longer or so but now it has become an adventure!

Change of Plan (Part 1)

I get back to the bus station to hear, The Good News: the bus now leaves at 2pm not 5, just as well I came back early. Plus the Bad News: the price has gone up by 50% plus $10 tip to the guy who got me the ticket.

It is clear that crowds of German travellers are coming from the airport to take the bus to Munich. Many have come from the Gulf and Istanbul was as far as the ailrines could take them. So 'supply and demand', the price has gone up.

The Early Bird

"The bus leaves for Munich at 5pm so be here at 4".

That gave me most of the day to explore the neighbourhood, well the Istanbul Forum Shopping Centre to be precise but at least it would help wile away the hours.

So I rang Sally and she told me about the Icelandic volcano with flight cancellations throughout Europe. What if this was extended to Turkey? Maybe everyone was flocking to the bus station as I speak. Time to get back and book that ticket. Decisive action that you would expect from Saddleman (temporarily not riding anywhere).

Moments of Doubt

I am beginning to consider myself a seasoned traveller, but I did feel stupid. The question put it all ın stark relief.

"Why did you give your onward ticket and passport away to a man who approached you near the bus?"

But he looked and sounded so genuine. He said that he needed to rewrite the ticket, lıke had happened before. Now half an hour later, I could not see him or remember his fleeting face when I went looking.

So someone offered to help, takıng me from one bus company desk to another. The man at the second one said, "Mister don`t worry. Your passport is here. The bus leaves in half an hour".

Now my helper is exchanging angry words with the counter staff and being physically dragged off the premises. I think he had designs on retrievıng the passport and taking me to the airport.

So my panic ıs over and my passport safe. I had trusted the right guy after all. We seasoned travellers do that. It`s just ınstinctive.

Kung Fu Fıghter

He came at me like a Samurai warrior, dressed in red, eyes blazıng, sınews taut. I had stopped on the street corner for directıons but he clearly took exception to this foreign intruder.Understandably so, for a fully-ladened trekkıng bike could just as well be an alien space ship in down town Aleppo.

He warned me first, barkıng an ınstruction and manically waiving me off. But I did not know where to go off to, so I continued to discuss with the group of friendly locals. Then the first blow came, a punch to the back, not hard but suprising. The other men ushered him away, without physical restraint.

A minute or two`s peace and then he was back again, rushing me from behind a parked van. He was cunnıng, maintainıng the element of surprise. But by then, I knew where to go, so I went. Cyclıng off towards my goal of finding a hotel. He had already achieved hıs, ridding the street corner of alien travel machines.

Lookıng Back

One of the pleasures of travel is that you can look back on yourself wıth benefit of perspective. I have been told that one of the admirable traits of the British is scepticism. We do not accept what our government, institutions or even other people say without questioning. Apparently, we like to seek out the truth or the facts to form our own opinion. Well, at least that was what I was told. But don´t just take my word for it.

p.s. I tried out such scepticism on the bus across Turkey last night. I took my shoes off, like you do on aircraft, but the elderly male steward took exception to this. (He looked like the tall one in that weird twosome who sang ,"This Town Aıin`t Begin Enough for the Both of Us" - most apposite). I pointed out that the feet did not smell. But he was having none of it. Scepticism nearly got me thrown off the bus.

The Falafel Brothers

They work very much as a twosome. A.J on pans, while Hussein does the wrap. And they make the best falafel in town.

A.J. boasts the fastest hands in the business. Taking a brand new composition, he scoops up the mixture in one and tosses it with the other. Yes, he can play the spoons like no one else, with a rhythm all of his own. The oil is hot and so is he. His act may last just a few minutes but the result is golden.

Then Hussein takes over. Starting with the flat bread roll, he moves on to falafel base followed by a tomato, bean and flat-leaf parsley medley. All topped off with cool tahini and red hot chilli pepper. For that perfect mix.

It was all quite a performance. And the result is worth the wait - pure mouth music.

Just Desserts

Perhaps it is the colonial French influence but Saida has taken baklova to a whole new level, or at least Al Baba has. His modern, air conditioned marble emporium is a shrine to Arabic sweets. Glass-fronted chill display cabinets present a colourful carcophony of tempting bite-size morsels. And he has also expanded into French cream cakes, Belgium chocolates and Italian icecream.

High above, a back-lit projection screen takes you through the handcrafted production process, while below seventy year old Mr Baba himself sits in his favourite chair, happily talking now and then with a familiar customer.

For he has relinquished control of day-to-day management to his many sons. They are the ones who updated the traditional sweet store and took the new format to Beirut, Qatar and now several European cities. His sweets have become an international luxury to enjoy and take home as presents, with a price tag to match.

Mop Top

How men care for their hair is character defining. Some get it cut little and often to an easily manageable length, neatly trimmed, low maintenance. Me, I go for the scorched earth approach. Get it cut short and then you do not have to revisit the issue for a few weeks. It gets its daily wash followed by a cursory brushover in the morning mirror, but from then on it's on its own.

The third group are like Wimbledon groundsmen, each day carefully preparing their treasured thatch to look its best in front of the world. To help, they have at their disposal an armament of shampoos, conditioners, highlighters and holding gels. But it is the care and expertise that makes the difference.

So if I chose the minimalist route, what am I doing with all that spare time?

Tigger's Holiday

I am on holiday with Tigger. My friend Martin bounces around with all the energy and enthusiasm of a teenager and the stamina of a Duracell bunny. He's taken a million photographs and cracked a thousand  jokes. In his wake I'm plodding along at a far more sedate pace. So what does that make me? Winnie the Pooh? Or perhaps Eeyore.

All That Glitters

The centre of Beirut is being rebuilt again after the devastation of past wars. The aim is to maintain the traditional but in a modern style. Tall elegant buildings from the Ottoman period, with majestic fronts and carved balconies are being lovingly restored in honey-coloured stone. From the rubble a modern city is being reborn brick by brick

Where once there was a bustling market now there are shops and cafes catering for the international set, for Lebanon relies heavily on tourists from the Gulf and beyond. It is best to look elegant as you sit in the sunshine and and drink your machiato alongside modern day Jackie Kennedys and Sohia Lorens. Cool, pampered teenagers gather in groups on their 'Bike Beirut' cycles before heading off to their next agreed destination. Toddlers enjoy the freedom of ther pedestrianised streets, mothers close at hand, nannies discretely further back holding the cumbersome paraphernalia of child raising.

All the old now has a new interpretation. Where the Souk once stood, the street names have been maintained but instead of specialised retailers, clustered together selling cloth, hardware, fruit and vegetables or other essentials of life, now you have shops displaying the Versacci, Gucci or Burberry brands.

These streets may be open to the skies but with panels that automatically deploy to protect their valuable shoppers from sun and showers. In past times, porters were available to take the goods back to the house. Now shop assistants and chauffeurs carry Amani-labelled bags to the BMW, waiting nearby, so that the shoppers can carry on, to their next machiato.

But there is another side from the glitz... Nun  Better

Enduring Solutions

His family opens the church in Bethlehem. They do it everyday, as they have done for the past 1400 years. For, way back then, the local Christians and Jews could not decide who should hold the key to the church that they both shared, so they both agreed to give it to the local Muslim family. It seems to have worked.

Totally Devoted To....

My friend's friend had become more devout. It was a personal decision at a key point in their life - early thirties, a stage of commitment.

Being Muslim and male, this meant that he could no longer hug my female friend any more, as part of a greeting or to say good bye.

I asked whether my friend felt afronted or excluded in some way. And I tried to consider how I would feel if, for instance, a female friend decided to wear a veil, or take up a new religion.

She said no, that she was happy with his decision. For he was still there for her. Still the same happy, warm person that she had always liked. Only now she could not touch him. But she could kid him about it and he happily took the joke, for his personality had not changed.

And maybe that's the point. It was a personal statement, it was not a character change. And it was not a rejection.

Multi-Stage Rockets

Some say that there is no going back. There is always going back! In Arabic they have a saying: "You can never burn a stage". It means that in the natural development of a person, a country, a project, there are certain essential phases that must be gone through. If one is missed then you must return at some future time to complete it.

For instance, I can speak from experience about the life stages of the human male: childish silliness, teenage rebellion, twenties adventure, thirties commitment, forties agitation, fifties reassessment, sixties relaunching, seventies contentment, eighties reflection.

You may apply your own description to each stage and they may not happen at precisely these times but they must be gone through. If not then you must return at a future date to experience what you missed. We have all seen some fifty year old dad's behave like teenagers. Often it's just because they did not let go when they were young.

So my question is this: Do countries have to do the same? And therefore can democracy be imposed from without? For instance, as is currently being attempted in Iraq. Perhaps earlier stages can be shortened but they can't be missed.

And then who is to say that this or that is the way for someone to behave at a certain stage in someone's life? They have to decide for themselves. And if they should choose, or be forced, to miss a stage then at some time in the future, they will have to go back.

Magic Potion

In the film "My Greek Wedding", it was Windex, the magic liquid that the father sprayed on everything and anything to fix the problem. That was meant as a joke. Here it is Olive Oil and people are serious.

For they seem to add Olive Oil to everything, to eat it at any time and to use it to solve Life's little problems.

And it is ever present. If you build a house with a garden, the first thing you do is plant an Olive Tree. Not that they need more. But it maintains the connection.

I guess it is a lubricant for life. Plus it tastes good.

Parallel Thoughts

In Germany, I was told about the Beast Within. The inner doubt and uncertainty that must be overcome to achieve your dreams. A Worldly aim.

In the Lebanon and likely all Arab lands, the metaphor has a deeper, more spiritual meaning. For here the beast is everwhere in side of you: in your veins, in your muscles, in your whole being. And so it must be controlled and suppressed.

Fasting helps to weaken it, prayer calms it, abstinence removes a source of its strength. Only by such means can you progressively and steadily, but never completely, overcome this inner temptation.

It is a lifelong process but if you succeed, then Heaven awaits.

Consequences

Driving behaviour provides an interesting insight into the local culture. In Saida the car that pulls up abruptly at a T-junction causes the car on the main road to brake, just in case. The three point turn in the crowded street results in temporary grid lock, but just for a while. The close graze from the passing car puts your heart in your mouth.

There is no physical impact, just a rise in blood pressure, taking you closer to that stress threshold, and perhaps outburst. Our actions have physical but also unseen psychological effects. And we all start with the same length of fuse. The Arab approach seems to burn the fuse a little more quickly.


Post script: I saw it to day, on the eight lane highway into Beirut, four each side. All of our lanes were blocked, the traffic just creeping along. Looking to the side, some cars were progressing quite well, in the same direction. For their drivers had decided to create a fifth lane on the other side of the central reservation.

Further down the road, we saw the police.Ticketing drivers? Not at all. Just directing the situation that they had encountered. They had decided to accept and regulate the illegality. It shows that laws are only enforceable if they enjoy the support of the populace.

The Parking Lot

We pulled into the car wash in Saida. Unfortunately, all the booths were occupied but there was plenty of space to turn in the adjacent parking lot. For this area used to be a multi-storey building. It collapsed during an air raid in 1982. All the occupants were sheltering in the cellar.

Those in neighbouring houses could hear the cries and the sound of exploding butane bottles. But due to the intense bombardment and the shear weight of the fallen masonery, they could only listen. Now it is quiet again, a parking lot

Behind the Embroidered Curtain

I may be a neophyte discoverying what many others before me have observed in these exotic lands but that is testament to how much they have to offer. Previously, I saw the Arab countries from afar but never looked closer. The view was limited: to TV broadcasts and newspaper headlines which tend to report the sensational. This visit hopefully enables me to look behind the embroidered curtain at ordinary life.

Beware!

Busy roads may be hard, they may be tough
But beware the real crazies
For they are cyclepaths.

Must Try Harder (Part 2)

I have found a solution. To make me the most proactive friend a person ever had. Better late than never. For I have learned that the Arabs have an approach to greetings. The first person to make contact is the most worthy. The second must then respond in even more friendly terms to make up for the fact they did not take the initiative. There is a lot to learn from these people.

So I am going to give myself a target. 10 points every day. 2 for a phone call or email, one for a face to face greeting. But they only count if there was no alterior reason for making the contact. It's all a bit contrived - you can see the mathematician in me - but I shall give it a try. So watch out, there is an unrequested contact coming to a place near you.

Black and White

So Sally arrives on Wednesday and of course I want to look my best. But I must admit that I do have a couple of tan lines. Well three to be exact: one around the neck and then on each wrist. Underneath my cycling clothes my skin does remain a trifle white.

Now of course she may not notice but just to ensure the desired look of a bronzed Adonis I could keep the clothes on all the time that she is here. But then, given the amount of weight I have lost over the past five weeks, she may not spot me at all.

End Of The Rode - April 4th

A while ago Bike and 'I Walked Out One Morning' in Cambridge and now 7 weeks later here we are, wine glass in hand celebrating at our destination, in 'Saida with Rosé'.

For today we arrived at our friend Wafa's apartment in southern Lebanon with Sally, Ros and other Martin due to arrive in a couple of days. Then we can enjoy the holiday that was the catalyst for this trip in the first place.

And so it ends. Of course there is still the small matter of getting home again. Plus Bike and I have a few more thoughts to add. But that can wait while we toast those people whom we met on the road.

Tyred and Deflated

Just when I wanted to ride fast Bike would not cooperate. Back wheel clearly had problems and so I stopped and there was my first puncture. Not great timing. The police truck had just pulled me over and warned of possible bandits so I should reach the next city, 30km away, by nightfall. And now there were plenty of local kids who had spotted the strickened stranger and were coming to investigate.

Nothing for it, the problem must be fixed. So I approached it with energy, keeping a close eye on my scattered belongings as the crowd watched. Things seemed to work as planned, the wheel came off and then the tyre. Spare inner tube was located and reconstruction began, although my hands were shaking a little with nerves and haste.

But a man politely pointed out how the new tube may get crimped by the tyre. We addressed the problem and then he began pumping in the air. A boy brought some Fairy Liquid and water to wash my greasy hands. They were there to help and were as pleased as I was when I could once more resume my dash for Tarbulus. Did they also think that it better for me not to sleep around there?

Visa Vie

If visitors to Heathrow airport find negotiating UK immigration controls akin to passing through the eye of a needle then crossing the Syrian-Lebanese border feels like you are a ping-pong ball.

At each side of the border you get bounced from one official to another with no apparent logic or predictability to the process.  But the two countries are different.

Syria's is all security-minded bureaucracy while Lebanon offers official entrepreneurism.  As-Summaaiyah is the only Lebanese entry point where you are charged an entry tax. Presumably it is an initiative of the local police chief, designed for job creation and revenue raising. His three teenage cousins appear to run the only money exchange office where they can charge an exhorbitant exchange rate.

On the Lebanese side there is more hustle and bustle but things seem to get done efficiently. In Syria you are likely to be the only one in the office. It's as though they have been waiting for you.

In both countries the border appears to provide entertainment for casual observers, along the line of: "there's little going on today, let's pop along and look at a few foreigners."

But in the end both systems work and with patience plus a little money you do get through, or at least bounced out of the other end.

South of the Border

Homam rode with me to the border, a distance of 80km or more. He wanted to be sure that I left Syria safely. It was a struggle for him to get there and back in a day so he set a fast pace. I was carrying 25kg and 25 years more than him, so it was a test of my strength and stamina.

They say that in the army they make new recruits hate the sergeant major who then drives you to achieve more than you ever thought possible. At times, for a second or two, I hated Homam but in the end I loved him for it. He got me to the Lebanon.

Let's Hear It For The Girls

I may have been the ugy duckling in the group but it was an exhilarating discussion all the same. All very mutually supportive. Four Syrian ladies and myself expressing why each was special and what were our hopes and dreams for the future. Lot's of excitment and shared joy - not masculine at all. No attempt to solve a problem or prove themselves right. More appreciating the value of the process than seeking a conclusion.

As the evening wore on some joking acknowledgement was given to the value of men in the world which enabled me to leave and revert to type once more.

So on to the next meeting of four men discussing systems of government and worldwide issues - Syrian men like to address the big questions. It occurred to me that maybe their views could be positively influence by awareness of the previous discussion

My House is Your House

The politeness and generous hospitality put me to shame. I have never devoted so much energy and attention to a guest as I myself have enjoyed here. And all I have to do in return is be here and be well meaning. How must we appear to the Arabic visitor to the UK? Inattentive? I hope not, but fear so

Different Backgrounds, Different Approaches

Our viewpoints reflected our backgrounds. After all my experience is business. This teaches me that in the completion of any agreement that will endure no one is completely happy but no one feels cheated. It is a workable compromise you seek.

He was a military man. You fight to win, to defeat and then to dictate the terms. Don't show any weakness as it will be exploited.

I come from this far off country, an island where we can chose when to engage and when to withdraw.

He lives in the crucible of the Middle East where there is no geographic safe haven to retreat to. He finds solace in past history, belief in his cause, solidarity and hopes for tomorrow.

No wonder the minds do not meet. Not this time.

The Big Question

The question came up in the late evening. I forget how, perhaps a gentle request for my view: How do you feel about the Palestine situation? It was after dinner with my new proxy host Monaf and his family - you get passed amongst friends in Jable.

But this was a truly committed audience. His father had just arrived from Damascus, a retired colonel in the Syrian commandos. He had fought in the 1973 war and again in Lebanon in 1982. So how to respond?

I tried to be calm and measured, to focus on long term visions but with a practical end; to recognise the huge pain suffered and the rights of all parties; to stress the need for compromise. All very British.

But there was another view in the room. That of right and wrong, of historical ownership and new comers to the land, of atrocity and struggle, of good and bad. All black and white, no grey. In this paradigm, if your cause is just then you will prevail, no matter how strong the enemy, no matter how long it takes. All very Arab.

The discussion was passionate but respectful. The facts were aired but need not be disputed, for it was a solution we sought. But with such differences in how this could be achieved, my compromise seemed a non-starter. By the end of the evening we had aired our views and left friends, just tied to different histories.

A Sense of Syria

As in other countries, I ask what it is like, in this case to be Syrian. The response reflects my experience of overwhelming hospitality, happiness that I have come to visit and and thirst to know more.

I can write my official explanation: Syrians have a confidence based on a proud culture and many centuries of history that enables its people to reach out and welcome stangers. Situated at the northern cross roads of the Near East, it has long been an important thoroughfare lying on the ancient Silk Route and part of a successful nation which over the centuries has been independent or part of a wider empire.

But to my mind there are many levels to this society, just like there are so many levels of archeology beneath the surface. It is religious yet relaxed, trusting but watchful, welcoming but inwardly cautious, respectful but frustrated.A warm friend but probably an implaccable foe.

These are my words. I do not mean to be disrectful just to better understand. Such a wealth of history can be a source of reference and wisdom to build a better future or a shackle slowing its move into the modern era. I hope for the many friends I have made here that it is the former.

Going Off Piste

Yusuf may have a plan but he was always ready to improvise. He and Mustafa had been calling and texting the two girls on and off all evening and then suddenly they both turned up. It may have been the attraction of seeing the strange Englishman but there was more to it than that.

Clearly Gulzah was the one Mustafa had been coyly courting by phone but Esra was the one in Yusuf's sights. I wondered about patient Imran back in Mardy, a key part of Yusuf's plan. But as they say, out of sight....

With again no common launguage we muddled along, now with lots of added giggling but Yusuf clearly wanted things to move faster. He kept whispering to me and I defensively pointed to Sally and my age in the hieroglyphic book but thankfully I wasn't to be part of their late evening plans.

I soon decided that I was supposed to be very tired and headed off to bed. They seemed to be separating off into couples, one more innocently than the other. It seemed an interesting contradiction in this devout, non-beer drinking Muslim culture. Maybe Kurds are a little more laid back. How things went I shall never know, but well I think.

Triathalon Man

It was overly ambitious expecting to reach Tartous before nightfall, so it was a relief when Homam cycled up alongside and invited me to stay at his home for the night. It was 10km back but then I have no fixed schedule. I am learning to adapt.

Homam is currently training for the triatholon taking place in nearby Latakia this summer. He will be the only entrant from Jable, his home town where he is something of an anomoly being so focused on sport. So we cycled back, he bought me a snack to keep me going and his brother Modar set up for me to speak to Sally on Skype.

And still the kindness goes on. A dinner spent with friends watching Arsenal versus Barcelona, a walk along the Mediterranean sea front. I am not even allowed to do my own washing. Perhaps I may get to pay for this hour at the internet cafe, but I am not banking on it.

Man with a Plan

Yusuf will take his final exams in September, then he will return to Mardy and his intended, Imran. But things will not move quite so fast.

He plans to be an immigration officer on the Turkish-Iraq border and I think the job is waiting for him. It is well paid - $2,000 a month - so then he will begin saving and he has a plan.

He will start to buy the house in 2012, a car in 2015 and then they can get together in 2018 with the wedding scheduled for 2020 - I did not pressed to see if that meant 2 years cohabitation, but I hope for their sorely tried patience that it does. But either way the plan was firm.

Hieroglyphics

How do you converse for an evening with absolutely no common language? After all the two students, Yusuf and Mustafa had kindly invited me to stay at their house and cooked dinner so we needed to learn more about each other.

Drawing pictures in my diary seemed to be the solution. We developed some conventions. Ladies had trangular skirts, stick men just legs. We wrote down ages, languages spoken, universities attended and subjects studied. Each member of our wider families were depicted. I leanred a lot. Both were Kurds (they insisted not Turkish), from Mardy near the Iraq border, now studying Turkish at the local university.

The conversation widened. Maps proved useful to help relate our personal histories. Days of the week and months of the year broadened the discussion until all subjects exhausted we resorted to playing cards.

Of course I have kept the drawings. They should prove valuable some day, just like the Rosetta Stone.

Coach Class

Turkey has a great national coach network with so many competing companies. You board in Istanbul near the Black Sea at 7pm and alight in Antakya 500 miles away on the Mediterranean at 10am the next day. And all for about 25 Euros ($40), including bike.

There are even minibus connections from various points in the City centre to get you to the main out-of-town bus terminus. And it all works. They even held back the coach for 10 minutes as they struggled to get me through the heavy traffic caused by the torrential rain.

The coaches are modern and you stop at well equipped service stations every 3 hours.

The best on is at 7am: a large wooden Alpine style building surrounded by snow covered mountains, with huge condors (OK, big birds) soaring high above on the air currents. A quick breakfast of soft pastries and some Turkish coffee, then back on the bus to head down into the southern plain.

Midnight Cowboy

As I found out today - well actually during the middle of the night - in any dispute, especially concerning a fact, there is at least a 50% chance of getting it wrong.

So it is not worth getting on your high horse as you may have to climb down again.

I came out is the loo in the Turkish motorway station. The sign at the payment booth said one Turkish Lira. So I gave him the exact note. But he complained. I was mad and I let it be known. If it cost more then replace the old sign. He returned the note and I rummaged for another. He didn't want this one either. It was in Euros. The first had been Romanian.

OK, in my defence, it was past midnight but that is still no time for having to climb down off high horses. It never is.

Torrential Downpour

It rained again today as I left Istanbul. Really poured And the water gushed along the near vertical streets in torrents, down into the Bosphorus.

For me that sums up Istanbul. If you want your senses to be bombarded then this is the place to visit. It is crammed full of history, marvelous sights, different cultures and great food. One of the world's great cities. And it doesn't rain too often.

Too Many Shots

The time to worry when you travel is when you start to recognise the background music in Starbucks or Costa. I have to admit that the place has served as a familiar sanctuary in a few cities. But it's still sad.

Through the door there is the wonderful sight of the peninsular on which Beruit is situated - just 40km from my destination. So why did I take a picture with the Costa staff?

Talking to Franciska

She's a lot like me in many ways, Suzan's mum, but that may be presumptious as we had only talked together for a couple of hours. But I liked her approach to life.. She loves to travel and often to do it solo. Not against travelling companions just appreciates her independence. To be able to decide where to go and when to stop

And she had projects and plans, really interesting one. At least to my ear - motor cycle meets in Japan, merchants ships to Africa.

Yes, I would like to do some of those things but probably it's not possible with Franciska. We are too alike and so would lose the thing we both sought. Deciding when to go and when to stay.

Something Special

I have just heard that there has been a new addition to the Tiffin family line. You can tell Ross is really chuffed. And without wanting to age him prematurely, I must say that he will make a great grandfather.

True Comitment

We hurried along Istiklal, the brightly lit main shopping street of Istanbul, in the pouring rain. It was about 8 in the evening but the downpour had not deterred the shoppers or the 'just lookers'.  Nor the football supporters. You could hear the chants from a distance, both ebullient and tribal. As an Englishman I expected trouble, maybe now an outdated view but damaged reputations take a long time to recover. The crowd swelled as the chanting came nearer but the shoppers appeared unconcerned.

And neither should they be for the fans were self-focused ,celebrating their team's victory in the Istanbul derby game: Fenerbache beat Galatarsari 1-0 in Galatasari's home ground for the first time in many years. So they jumped and sang in unison. Not threatening, just joyous. No alcohol to turn things nasty but by choice not restriction.

Yes those boys were happy. However, I was not so sure about the few bedraggled girlfriends hanging on to their bouncing partners' hands in the heavy rain. They must have wished for the repertoire to be exhausted. But still they stayed. That's comitment for you. Girl to Boy. Boy to Team